Thank God I'm A Country Boy

                Why in the world did I move to a rural county?  Occasionally, I ask myself this question, not because I doubt the choice, but because I want to be reminded to prevent frustration.  I never really enjoyed living in the city, and when I was about finished with seminary I asked God if I could please live in the country?  I consider this place the answer to that prayer.

                I still have some city expectations hiding in the crevices of my psyche, though.  So, once in awhile I have to remind myself consciously of the reasons I requested this life in the first place.  I do this in the line at the local market when the people in front of me are taking too much time because they are talking to the clerk like they are friends catching up on each other’s lives.  That, of course, is because they are friends catching up on each other’s lives.  So, I take a breath and thank God I live in a place where people generally care about one another.  When the fire engine siren jars me awake at 3:00 A.M. as it lumbers down a completely deserted street, I remind myself that I asked to live in a place where volunteers (who love to make the siren wail) man most of that apparatus.

                I was thinking about this answer to prayer the other night as I was visiting with my son’s family in Shingle Springs.  After arriving mid-afternoon, I took my grandson out back to shoot bb’s at makeshift targets.  I could hear my wife giving a piano lesson to one of my granddaughters up in the house.  The geese were making a racket out on the lake.  A nervous Red-Tail Hawk squawked and flew off to the east to distract us from the nest high up in a Valley Oak.  When it was time for my grandson to have his piano lesson, I got the John Deere mower out and trimmed up a half-acre, waving to the teenage boys walking by with their fishing rods.

                After parking the mower, I walked past two of the granddaughters getting good use out of the trampoline.  My wife and daughter-in-law were getting dinner ready when I entered the kitchen.  The youngest granddaughter wanted up.  We read a book together.  Then it was outside to push a three-year-old on the swing hanging from a big oak branch.  The seat was 18” off the ground, but when I pushed her she swung out as the ground dropped away, giving her the sense of sailing off into the blue sky above.  Daddy got home from work and took over as the official swing pusher. 

                It was enchiladas for dinner.  The two oldest kids set the table, with the oldest girl deciding who was going to sit next to Pappy and Nana.  The 9-year-old boy put away two large enchiladas, then set one aside for later. 

                After cleaning up a little, we all headed out back to see where this year’s vegetable garden was going to be planted.  We walked past the chickens, holding the 3-year-old’s hand.  She’s been skittish ever since the rooster jumped on her back a few months back.  After checking out the future garden spot, the adults began to conjure up ways to get a camera into the hawks’ nest.  Mylar balloons, remote control helicopters.  Nothing seemed practical.  We walked along the pond catching and releasing tiny frogs.

                Sitting on the front deck in a padded, gliding rocker, I watched the 1 ½-year-old dance and run back and forth while the adults talked.  The two oldest ones argued as first one and then the other sprayed water on each other.  It seemed the proximity of the one holding the hose was the focus of the fairness disagreement.  The Springer Spaniel decided he wanted to play, so he ran in circles, barking and trying to avoid being tagged by the stick my son was wielding. 

                The sun was setting.  The temperature was dropping a little.  We had to go.  As we yelled our good-byes to our grandchildren (we didn’t really want to hug them, since they were rather wet), and headed to the truck, I consciously snapped a photo with my mind’s camera of this bucolic scene that had been our afternoon and evening.  And I thanked the Lord once again for this blessing he has given us.

                The lesson for us Ionians: Slow down.  Take it all in.  It’s too easy to miss out on it all when we make the mistake of trying to rush what shouldn’t be rushed.  And it would be a shame to neglect any gift God has given us.

St. Patrick's Day in a Foothill Community

                It’s been a few years since I’ve been to Jackson, California’s Dandelion Days.  But the weather this weekend was so perfect, I just had to drive up and check things out.  While the big picture brought back some fond memories, some of the details threw me off balance a little.

                We drove around the usual ten or fifteen minutes looking for a parking space, settling on a hill of about a 60 degree incline.  As we walked the couple of blocks to the edge of the festivities we noticed a small Ferris wheel making its rounds rather quickly, we thought, and looking like it could use a new coat of paint.  That made me wonder if it also could use some new internal organs.  I’ve always been a little skittish about traveling carnival rides.

                It was time for lunch, and the choices were pretty slim.  Karen settled on a pulled pork sandwich from the Rainbow Girls’ booth.  I decided to try an Indian Taco from a different booth.  The sandwich was just an average sandwich.  The taco was a large, open-face affair, with the usual fixin’s dropped on top of a thick, grease-soaked bread tortilla.  It tasted fine, but certainly should not have been a part of my efforts to lose a few pounds.

                We moseyed through the Wells Fargo parking lot.  I was overcome with the feeling I was in dirty place, though everything looked clean.  I was reminded of the time I worked for a carnival.  It was a one-night job, helping to dismantle the rides after the Nevada County Fair the summer of 1969.  The permanent employees of carnivals are, well…different from most of the people to whom you, my readers, and I tend to gravitate.  Personal hygiene is not a priority, and drug use was not well hidden.  That night, however, I did find myself admiring their work ethic.  They may have been working in order to support a lifestyle of which I disapproved, but they labored hard throughout the night.  However, as I wandered through the foothill parking lot on a crystal clear day, I thought, “I would not allow my children to hang out here by themselves.”

                We left that district of cheesy, Chinese-made junk vendors, turned up Main Street and entered a different world where people displayed their beautiful homemade wares without pouncing on prospective buyers who stopped to admire their handiwork of scented candles, silver ornaments, and pastel art.  Instead, they casually greeted us and answered questions, leaving the decision of buying or walking on to the next booth up to us.  Either way, we were blessed with smiles.  I liked that world better.

                We weren’t in the market for anything particular, so we eventually ambled back to our car, delighted to see it had not rolled down the hill on which it was parked.  Our next stop was the residential care home where my father-in-law lives.  He was not feeling up to participating in the worship service in the common area, but Karen volunteered to play the piano for the small group of Lutherans  who had volunteered to conduct the service that Sunday. 

                One man, new to the facility, was unusually boisterous.  Most of the men there talk very little or not at all.  He was the exception.  And when he spoke, he did so in such a way as to make sure everyone down the hall would be able to hear.  He looked through the song book and observed with a laugh, “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder!”  We sang it and a couple of other songs.  Then we heard from him again, this time with tears welling up in his eyes, “I think, since it is St. Patrick’s Day, we should honor…honor that little isle…by singing,” and here he nearly broke down, “…Danny Boy.”  Karen doesn’t play well from memory, but she found a key and we all sang our own versions of the American perception of the Irish National Anthem. 

                We followed that up with Jesus Loves Me.  A woman who had just shuffled in and sat down began to sob as we sang.  A worker at the home, a fairly new employee, got up, walked over, and gave her a hug and a kiss.  We all finished the last line, “…the Bible tells me so,” only to hear another lady finishing up in her own time, “…Yes, Jesus love me, the Bible tells me so.”  It was an unexpected solo, two measures behind the rest of us, but sung with gusto.  She sang that last note, then laughed without restraint.  So did we all.

                As soon as that song was finished, a lady on the other side of the room wanted to know, “What church is this?”  The Lutheran minister, wearing his black shirt and white collar, assured her it was not a particular church service, but a worship service for all.  He began to announce the next song, but was interrupted by the same woman with the same question.  He leaned over to reassure her again, when the man on the other side of the room yelled, “Give ‘em hell, Father!”

                We managed to get in one more song before Karen and I slipped down the hallway, holding our laughter back until we were outside and the door was closed behind us.

                It wasn’t the Sunday I had anticipated.  It was not a normal worship service at the home.  But it sure was interesting.  God has filled the world with all sorts of people.  I am ever amazed and blessed by the variety in my life.

Death and the Blogger

 

                It’s rude to wish for anyone’s death or to rejoice at the incident of said death.  Most Americans believe this.  I hope all Christians believe this.  But it is difficult to dodge those happy thoughts when the person in question was a particularly evil person.  Somehow, it just seems right to be happy that person is gone.

                I began mulling over this topic while listening to our pastor speak about Judas Iscariot.  He offered his opinion that Jesus may have been giving Judas one last chance to change his mind when he warned all the disciples that the one who betrayed him would have been better off never being born.  Kind of a reversal of the It’s A Wonderful Life idea.  I’ve never heard anyone even hint at a kind word for Mr. Iscariot before, so this caught my attention.  I must give him his due.  He was one of the twelve, so he must have had potential.  He must have had some good intentions.  He must have started out as the others, caring about the things of which Jesus spoke.  We have some indication he was concerned about the less fortunate of the world.  And truthfully, what was his motive for turning against Jesus?  I think he considered Jesus a good man, but harmful for the cause of violently breaking the Roman stranglehold on Israel.  His heart was with the downtrodden, but he wanted to do things his own way.

                It came to me that there are some historic figures who I have never mourned.  Obviously, Adolf Hitler was the first to come to mind.  Is there some reason I shouldn’t be pleased, if not happy, at the demise of such an evil life?  How that of Idi Amin?  Or maybe Pol Pot?  I checked the Internet for various Top Ten Most Evil People In History lists and found many duplicates, most of them Hitler’s Nazis, and several so-called doctors who conducted unspeakable experiments on prisoners of war.  I know there are always people who don’t see these obvious examples as evil, but instead revere them.  I am confident, however, they are a very small, insignificant number. 

                But I did observe on these Top Ten lists, names that would be contested by many people around the world and from different generations.  Josef Stalin came up several times.  Osama bin Laden, George Bush, Oliver Cromwell, and Mao Tse-tung were on some of the lists.  Even Justin Beiber made one list.  Yet, there are literally millions of people who see each of these men as heroes, not villians.  Trying to maintain an open, objective mind, I can understand why there is so much disagreement concerning names like these.  We are all bent toward various political, social, economic and religious points of view.  We use different filters on our moral microscopes, resulting in seeing people quite differently.  So, how does one decide who is evil and who is a hero?  Who should be mourned, and whose death should be celebrated?

                Some solve this dilemma by seeking the lowest common denominator of human existence.  There has to be some good in everyone.  We are all just products of our societies, our cultures, our families, and our chemistries.  There is no evil, just misguided good intentions.

                That doesn’t really work for me.  I know from my own life that the millions of choices I had to make were completely mine.  I knew, from as far back as I can remember, there was right and wrong, and what constituted right and wrong, even if I didn’t see it lived out in my family or whatever subculture I was in.  When I finally paused long enough to ponder the big questions about good and evil, I found that Jesus explained what I had long known inherently.  The apostle Paul wrote, “For since the creation of the world, God’s invisible qualities…have been clearly seen…so that men are without excuse.”  That certainly applied to me, an un-churched kid from a dysfunctional family. Evil isn't an excuse, it's a choice.

                So, this week I began reading about people who were thrilled to hear of the death of Hugo Chavez.  Many were Venezuelans  who had left the country, claiming Chavez was a horrible despot. Their filter was an accumulation of personal experiences.  Others were politicians who, predictably using political filters, expressed their glee more subtly.  I’ll admit, I wasn’t sorry to hear of his passing.  Upon reflection, I suppose that was because of my filter, which is heavily influenced by what I hear and read.  I didn’t have any particular animosity toward him either, just a general belief that he was not a good guy.  Then I became aware of some people who spoke kindly of the man.  I certainly expect that from people of the same political, religious or economic viewpoints, but coupled with ponderings about Judas and the rest, I gave this more attention than I probably would have otherwise.

                The arguments I heard mostly focused on Chavez’ pure intentions and observable behavior where the underprivileged were concerned.  Neither of these are without controversy, since nobody can know another’s secret motives, and there is much anecdotal information from eyewitnesses who saw two different men in Chavez, a evil dictator and a benevolent champion of the poor.  I don’t know that I care enough to spend much effort or time trying to find the real Hugo Chavez.  I’m sure some Hollywood producer will soon be happy to lay claim to that knowledge.  What interests me is people’s reactions to his death.  In particular, my reaction.  Should I be glad?  Should I mourn?

                At the risk of being trite, I believe I should be sorrowful about every loss of life.  For some, because I will miss them on a personal level. For others, because I don’t know for sure where they will spend eternity.  For others, because I am afraid I do have a pretty good idea where they are headed.  Even Judas’ death ought to at least be acknowledged as a sad end to the life of one of God’s creation.

                Chavez’ death falls into that category of a vast pool of people who are only names to me.  Okay, maybe a little more than just a name, but certainly not someone who has occupied my mind or has earned my affections.  But I am a little sad, as Hugo was a creation of the Almighty God, and he doesn’t make mistakes.  We supply those for him.

                What a dark blog!  I promise to be slightly more upbeat next time.